Dark Chest of Wonders
by fetch-thranduilion
Summary: No, it's not a reference to Dalamar's wound, it's the second sequel to the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, in which Ken has some unfinished business, Feanor mopes, and Raistlin picks on Roger mercilessly.
1. The New Guy Dies The New Story Starts

Happy Halloween! Here I sit, in my Raistlin costume, searching for something fun and scary to do, and what could be scarier than my lousy writing?

I feel like there's something I should be saying about this chapter, some disclaimer to make or something, but I can't remember, as I got very little sleep last night (darned cast party)(jk; it was fun)…the only thing I can think of kind of speaks for itself: When Raistlin speaks telepathically it's **bold and underlined**, whereas Feanor's speech is just **bold.**

I don't own anything…in fact, I don't even know whom I should cite as owning the new character (please excuse the randomness of the first scene here; some of it is, word for word, the script of the American version of the game).

Yeah, I'm still being bothered by the feeling that I'm omitting something, so if you find it, complain and I'll give my reasoning. Because there was reasoning. For whatever it was.

Anyway, here's the first chapter of the REMSG sequel sequel, which by a unanimous vote is entitled:

Dark Chest of Wonders, Chapter One: The Obligatory "Another Quest Is Beginning! Wheet-Whooo!" Chapter (Please Excuse My Tsubasa Reference)

"_Once I had a dream…and this is it."_

"Lyon! Wait! Don't close your eyes! I'm going to save you! I'll find a way! I…"

"No, don't…" He was tired, so very tired. His body had not been his own for so long, and now that it was he had no time left to live in it. The wounds were too grievous…holes in his flesh like the holes in his soul, carved there by the influence of the foul Stone and its captive. It would not be long now. But he had one last thing to say to his best friend before he gave in to the darkness encroaching on his vision. "Thanks, anyway. It was all my fault…don't look so sad." He smiled feebly, trying to be lighthearted. "C'mon, Ephraim, smile like you used to…"

The strain claimed him; the last thing he heard as he slipped away was his name, called one last time by the man who had killed him to save his spirit.

"Lyon…"

_Oh, Ephraim…I wish I could make it up to you…I wish there was somewhere I could go, something I could do…to make up for what I've done…to get a second chance…a chance to get over this, this the horrible truth…to…recover…_ Then he could not even think anymore, and the blessed darkness swallowed him, carrying him away…

…only to deposit him in a disheveled heap, confused and wincing, on a sandy desolate beach. Next to him stretched a mirror-flat grey sea; in the distance plateau-like cliffs loomed far above his head.

Shaking sand out of his hair, Lyon stood but could recognize nothing. He wasn't in Grado…probably not even in Magvel. If this was Death, then it was certainly a dreary place.

Lonely, too. Perhaps that was his punishment, to wander monotonal landscapes forever, with no one to talk to…no answers…nothing but the hole carved in his soul by his misguided crusade.

A noise behind him made him turn; was he wrong in believing a lifetime (deathtime?) of isolation awaited him. Although, seeing what approached, Lyon found himself deciding loneliness would be preferable. He backed up, tripped over his long robes, scrambled back to his feet, and ran. Once he'd recovered his strength, he could stand his ground.

But not now. Not against…that. Wondering faintly if one could die twice, Prince Lyon of Grado turned and ran for his afterlife.

**o0o**

Something heavy and black had landed on Maedhros's back; something else was sticking into his side. Reaching out, Maedhros felt along the object prodding him: clawlike, clutching a hard multifaceted object. Raistlin's staff. Then, above him…Raistlin. And below…

"Elbereth Gilthoniel!" Maedhros jumped up, sending Raistlin rolling off his back; the mage retched wretchedly. "Ken! Are you all right? Has anything broken?"

"I think my wings are dead," came a muffled complaint, and Lucemon stood towards the end of the strange aisle in which they lay. Walking over to the groaning Ken, the angel kicked the boy. "Hey! Schizo's talking to you! Get up!"

Ken's blue eyes snapped open; he sat up and stared around. "I don't believe it," he said in a strained voice. "How did we get here?"

"You screamed like a thousand demons were rending your soul in twain," Roger replied lazily, rounding the corner of the aisle. Seeing Raistlin on the ground, seemingly still unconscious, he smiled broadly and knelt down.

"Don't touch it!" There was a crackling sound, and Roger yelped in pain. Standing, Raistlin retrieved his staff from Roger's numb fingers and surveyed the surroundings. "Where's the warrior?" he asked. "I dare not hope we left him behind."

"I'm here." Anakin walked over, looked down at Ken. "What's wrong with him?"

"Hey, what's going on over—Ken! What are you doing on the floor? Get up! Who are these people? What's going on?"

"Hello, Yolei," Ken shakily told the bespectacled girl helping him to his feet as the rest of the group simply stared. "These are my new friends."

There was a collective snort of derisive laughter from all parties referenced; Maedhros marveled that his father hadn't chimed in. Then he frowned. "Father? Are you there?"

**I am here, **came the voice. **Yet I do not claim to be your father. I have no sons. I have nothing. All is nothing.**

He sounded more shocked and dazed than bitter. With a pang of sympathy, Maedhros understood: the Silmaril. Feanor was mourning far more than the loss of a jewel. His heart and hopes had descended into the Sea as well. "Father…"

**Rejoin your precious friends and leave me be. They need you, though why I cannot fathom. Don't they know you'll only let them down?**

"I will never let anyone down again!" retorted Maedhros, a bit more loudly than intended to. As usual, everyone looked at him; apparently the novelty of his discussions with his father hadn't worn off. Roger smirked. "Excellent. Then illuminate for us…what in the world is going on?"

Maedhros would have given up not only his hand again but his entire right arm for the answer to that exact question. Sighing and seeking a way to leave the limelight, he used an old diplomatic trick from his war days. "I think that query can best be answered by the person who had my handbook the longest. Raistlin, please."

"As you wish," the archmage replied, his eyes glinting; in their golden depths Maedhros saw clearly that the black-robed man understood the elf's thoughts perfectly. "The answer is a simple one. We have been assigned yet another task, as our last resulted in such abysmal failure." His eyes rested on Roger as he hissed the final word. The Duke bristled at the implication.

Maedhros moved to intervene, but stopped short upon hearing yet another voice in his head: surprisingly, Raistlin's.

**Don't bother, elf. He cannot harm me. Focus on your task. The boy Ken, it seems, recognizes this place. Follow him, and you will find your objective.**

"How…"

**Silence! I am speaking to you thusly because I do not wish to be overheard. We must leave the angel, warrior, and so-called wizard behind if you are to achieve your goal. They will only get in the way.**

**Speaking of in the way, human, leave this body! It is intolerable enough I must suffer my son's presence without having you butting in here too.**

**Ah, but I have not left my body, have I? **

**More's the pity. You're hardly an object of great beauty.** Feanor in his distraught state was getting petty.

**This from the elf without a body at all. You have no leg to stand on and you know it.** Apparently so was Raistlin.

"You will PAY for such an insult!" Maedhros's mouth exclaimed, and he found himself on his feet, sword drawn. Anakin ignited his lightsaber, searching for the enemy.

"All right, mister, that's quite enough! Both of you, put those away before you hurt somebody! Ken, who are these people? When my parents come home, they'll flip!" The tall human girl elbowed her way into the group, brown eyes flashing behind large round spectacles. "I'm supposed to be running the store and you're freaking out all our customers! See, there's nobody left!"

"We're here," Lucemon offered.

"Shut up," Roger, Anakin, Raistlin, and Maedhros said automatically. Hurt, the angel stuck out his tongue and sat down, sulking. Ken, ignoring all of them, continued conversing with the girl in low tones, which Maedhros's keen elven hearing nonetheless picked up.

"What are you doing here?"

"A Phase Three, I think."

"A what? Ken, I don't…"  
"I'm sorry. It's a long story, and I don't have the time. Please, just tell me something. Has anything strange happened in the digital world lately?"

"How should I know? I've been working, Ken, I wish you'd just…"

"I don't have time. I need to use your computer!"

Ken snapped the last order with such tension in his voice that the girl stepped backwards, taken aback. Raistlin sidled over to Maedhros, pretended to read the contents of a shelf.

**Eavesdropping?** Feanor wondered to his son, but apparently the mental link once forged transported everything.

**We are much alike, Sir Elf.** Raistlin refused to meet Maedhros's eyes, but his "voice" gained in urgency. **If we are to leave, we should leave soon.**

**And go where? Out into an alien world? Only a fool sets off with no plan in mind!**

**Ah, but I have a plan. Which, I think, is more than can be said for several of your ventures.**

"What, if I may interrupt, makes you think I enjoy having a convention of voices resonating through my brain!" Maedhros hissed. "All right, mage. We'll follow your plan; or at least, the part about letting Ken take the lead." He looked up as Anakin, who had wandered away to investigate the area, knocked over a display by accident and reassembled it using the Force, causing two teenagers entering the store to abruptly turn and leave. "Actually, on second thought, we shall follow the whole thing."

The girl was leading Ken behind a counter. Raistlin and Maedhros followed. "You three," Maedhros told Roger, "stay here. Our target could be anywhere. We'll interrogate her and report back."

Roger, smiling, showed all his teeth. "Of course."

"Why," muttered Maedhros to no one in particular as he turned away, "do I feel like _I'm_ the one being used as a pawn?"

**o0o**

Yolei, relieved, leaned against the door of her apartment. They were gone, whoever they had been; Ken hadn't been very cooperative. She hated when he got like that, so resolved in one course of action that he couldn't see the alternatives. The last time he'd gotten like that, she'd had to slap him.

But on the other hand, his boyish stubbornness was rather endearing…

Rubbing her suddenly flushed cheeks and searching for something else to think about, she realized she'd given the strangers her brother's imported American shirts as disguises. Oh well. He'd deal. They all would have to…what was _Ken_ dealing with, anyway, that he couldn't let her or any of the others help him? He'd rushed them all up to her apartment (using the stairs, too, of all things; the elevator, he claimed, was "too modern" for his new friends to comprehend) only to realize he shouldn't open a digital gate until he had Wormmon in tow. So off they all ran to the bus stop, in Yolei's brother's clothes, leaving her alone and slightly frazzled. Boy, was Ken going to get an earful from her when he got back! She had half a mind to call Davis and the others anyway; Ken also had a habit of biting off way more than he could chew yet insisting it was "his fight" alone.

Alone. She wasn't alone anymore, entering the convenience store her parents operated on the ground floor of her apartment building. Those other people were still here. The bearded man was smiling, though; that was a good sign. He wasn't angry.

_But then again,_ Yolei thought as the three approached her, two of them changing forms and brandishing their weapons, _that isn't such a good sign after all._

Reaching for the phone, she realized, _I should probably warn Ken…_

She barely got the chance.

**o0o**

a/n: Yeah, yeah, short chapter, so sue me.

Review Replies:

**Html:** No, it's not! So there! Mwahahahahahahaha! The magic of the site's formatting triumphed over even your formidable clerical powers!

**Mirowood:** I forgot to tell you: I read a Trigun manga! We're going to put them into the collection at the library…and you can see how Raist and Roger interact. Chumy, huh? Sorry, your guess wasn't right…but at least good ol' Lyon showed up now. I promise they will meet him soon. My brother only showed me the Ephraim ending; he was willing to replay the game for me once but after that he ran out of files…yes, I did watch the kid play essentially all of Fire Emblem.

**Crysania Lomiel Moredhel:** has a free download of "Raistlin and the Rose," if you're interested….Maglor will, sadly, not be showing up in here, but you better believe there will be at least one short story in which he makes an appearance.

**Abbie:** Ah, Revered Daughter. I know you are not joking in my affections for me; I only wish you were. Okay, I'll go out of character now. Thanks for reviewing as always, and I hope to keep the Raist&Roger going for quite some time. They make good foils: one charming people into submission, the other insulting them…

**Sqrt(-1):** Oh, I get it now! Sorry bout that. As for your suggestion, I have this whole story mapped out so I can't really include them now, but there's always that anthology…Wormtongue….hmmmm….I'm sensing possibilities here….and Gollum is already on the list on my blog….I can see Feanor's reaction to the Third Age ("I don't do that 'fading' thing; the glory of the Elves should endure forever, but that's what you get for following the descendents of my half-brother…")

That's it for now. I'm hyper and tired at the same time. Pardon me.

Next chapter will be a while; I have to write it, not just type.


	2. NonFeanorish Revenge

After a long respite, I return! (that probably didn't merit an exclamation point but oh well) Sorry to everyone who got confused by the underlining or lack thereof in the last chapter; I swear it was all there when I uploaded it…

Here we go…again…my apologies to non-Digimon watchers. If you don't understand, tell me and I'll clarify, but hopefully I do a decent enough job explaining.

And absolutely nothing is mine! I don't even own an obnoxious T-shirt!

Dark Chest of Wonders, Chapter Two: Someone Other Than Fëanor Decides Now Would Be An Absolutely Spiffing Time For 

"_Fly to a dream, far across the sea…"_

"Never again!" vowed Maedhros to himself as he staggered off the bus, swaying slightly as he walked; next to him Raistlin's golden skin was burnished a bit with green. "Never again will I entrust my fate to any transport without horses!"

**Then stop walking, **mumbled Fëanor. **Is it not enough that I am robbed of everything important to me and then forced to, through you, suffer the bitterest of humiliations? Must you whine about petty indispositions?**

"The tunic is a strange coincidence," snapped Maedhros as he followed Ken (who was acting rather strange, come to think of it; Maedhros had never seen such quiet intensity in his life) into the tall building the boy had called his "apartment". "And it is only natural to be upset by new forms of conveyance." Nonetheless he cast a baleful glance at the lettering on his "disguise" tunic; the words "You're just jealous the voices don't talk to you!" blazed smugly back up at him. Raistlin, Maedhros noticed, was walking more hunched-over than usual as well: perhaps it was the fact that he had been forced to shrink his staff and hide it in his pocket, or perhaps it was to conceal the words "I'm the evil twin" written in large black block letters across the red tunic he wore.

"Come on," Ken snapped over his shoulder to his two nauseous companions. "We have to hurry!" He herded them into a small boxy room and pressed a button with the number "3" on the wall. With a lurch, the room began to move upwards.

Maedhros groaned and closed his eyes.

**o0o**  
Lyon groaned and closed his eyes. This was it. He was done for. He couldn't run any longer; he'd never been athletic. So. This was how he would meet his final end. Not at the hands of his best friend and his companions, but sprawled on the sand alone on a dreary beach with a vicious monster giving chase. It didn't even make sense. Unless…was he doomed to die, over and over again, in one strange situation after another, until Whoever was manipulating his spirit decided he'd suffered an appropriate amount for his sins? He'd find out soon enough, he supposed.

"Father, I failed you, I'm sorry," he moaned as a shadow fell across him; then his eyes snapped open and he leapt to his feet again. No. No. He would not disgrace his father—rest his soul—the Emperor deserved a son with a worthier end! For his father's sake, for Ephraim's sake, for his own sake, he would fight, and fight well. He was not the only Necromancer in all of Magvel for nothing. Power unimaginable was his to command; yet if he did not use it, what good was it to him, to anyone?

His spellbook, his staffs: they were still with him. Opening Naglfar, his precious tome, finding the passage he sought, Lyon swept his cloak out of his way and raised his hand, calling his magic with all his might. One hit, that was all he would get in, one critical, critical hit that would determine his fate.

He hoped he had the strength to make it count.

**o0o**

They crashed into the apartment, Ken's footsteps setting a pounding tempo for his companions; he noticed Yolei's number flashing on the answering machine and clicked it on as he dashed through the kitchen, then came to a sudden stop as her panicked voice began to reverberate through the room.

"Ken! They're coming! They're angry at you! At all of you! You aren't safe! They're coming, and they—" There was a gagging sound, a thud, then Lucemon's voice chirping faintly, "How come when I make a fist nothing happens but when you do people turn purple and drop on the floor?"

"They got Yolei," Ken said to no one, stunned and chilled. "They hurt her. And it's my fault."

"What is your fault? Kindly elaborate on what's transpiring here!" Maedhros came up behind the boy, looking a bit pale and ragged still after the jostling, jolting experience that was the Tokyo public transportation system. From another room came a low voice: "Ken! You're home! Who's with you?"

"Wormmon, get the digiport up!" Ken called down a hall as he stuffed his goggles in his pocket, ignoring Maedhros (and Raistlin, who after having a coughing fit halfway down the hallway had caught up to the rest) completely. Sighing in frustration, the two doggedly followed him into a sparsely furnished room, where a small green insectoid—Ken's partner Wormmon—was working with a strange, glowing machine, tapping furiously on a pad with letters on it. With a blip, a window began to unfold itself on the screen…

….as the glass door leading to the terrace on the far wall exploded into a million shards and Lucemon, large and vampiric in his bird-and-bat-winged Falldown Mode form, forced his way in. Anakin and Roger dropped out of his arms onto the floor and drew their weapons: Anakin his lightsaber and Roger his wizard's rod. With a word from Raistlin, the Staff of Magius reverted to its original size; Maedhros drew his sword, hoping that it wouldn't unexpectedly burst into fire again.

"Time for payback!" Roger cried triumphantly.

Ken held his digivice out to the computer screen and felt another stabbing pain in his neck. "Yes," he agreed through gritted teeth, "but not for you."

Anakin wavered: "What do you mean?" he asked, but Lucemon charged in, screaming; Raistlin raised his staff to ward off the angel/demon's attack; Wormmon leapt into Ken's arms; the boy gave a terrific howl of pain and grappled at the back of his neck, sinking to his knees while still managing to choke out "Digi…Port…Open…."; Maedhros was about to ask once and for all just what in Eru Iluvatar's name was going on when he felt himself be sucked away, into the machine….or to strange dimensions beyond….

And then nothing but darkness….

**o0o**

Lyon's "life" was saved by a flash of light and an elf. The flash of light, because it blinded his opponent momentarily, and when it cleared gave him new prey; the elf, because it fell unexpectedly out of the sky directly on top of him, knocking him down once more but shielding him completely from any attacks.

\"You tampered with the digiport, didn't you?" he heard a young voice asking. The elf on top of Lyon groaned and opened his eyes—grey eyes, confused and crazed. "Um-hello," said Lyon, blinking, not sure what to say and exceedingly embarrassed. The elf's face turned redder than its hair and it hastily jumped off of the Prince's reclined body, stammering apologies. Nearby, more strange figures were getting to their feet: two men who looked like they might be magicians from their robes, though an empty scabbard hung off one's belt, a dark-clad swordsman with a battle scar slashed vertically across his right eye, only his blade seemed to be made of light, a strange winged creature that flashed with light once, then shrank down to the form of a small boy, who strangely upon looking around remarked only, "Dumped on a beach _again_!"

Turning from these strange sights, Lyon saw the reason why none of the newcomers—or himself for that matter—had been blown off the seascape by the giant, horned, wizardlike monster which had just moments before come very close indeed to destroying him. A lone figure, clutching tightly something green and moving, stood unwavering before it.

The figure, Lyon realized, of a mere boy.

**o0o**

"Of course I tampered with the digiport!" howled Daemon as Ken stared him down—or rather, up, as the Digimon had grown since Ken had seen him last. Once Daemon had towered above the buildings in Tokyo. Now he rivaled a mountain, his robes wide violet expanses, malicious glee dancing in electric-blue eyes the size of buses, the only features in the blackness between his pointed hood and wrinkled tall collar. "Do you think I would pass up the chance, now that I have absorbed Dagomon and become practically one with the Dark Ocean, to get back at you? Did I not swear it?"

"Yes," replied Ken, matching him blue-eyed glare for blue-eyed glare, an insect scowling up at the exterminator defiantly, "you did."

_You forced me to make the choice, Daemon, you wanted my Dark Spore just like Oikawa, but while he at least traveled with known entities—and was threatening innocents, which at the time you were not—you were an enigma. You are still an enigma. Why me? Why my Spore? Why then? Why, if you could pass between worlds so easily, did you not show yourself until then? Who are you? What do you truly want? I locked you here, here in the Dark Ocean I could access only through channeling my darkest thoughts, the seeds of evil within me turned upon themselves and made to serve good, because I thought you could not reach me here, could not reach anyone. _

_And why take my friends?_

He heard the others assembling behind him, weapons up; out of the corner of his eye he saw a young periwinkle-haired man, clad in rich yet tattered robes, whom he did not recognize. Who was that? But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore but Daemon. Daemon, who he and his friends could not kill, even with all their partners working together. Daemon, the unknown thrusting himself into Ken's life for such a short period of time, yet forcing him to do so much. Daemon…Daemon…Daemon…

Ken had suspected as much when his Spore, the awakener of evil within him, had begun to twinge. And never in his life had he more detested being right.

"And now," the giant Digimon was saying, one purply-blue clawed hand raised, cupping a ball of fire, "now revenge shall be mine…"

Wormmon yelled and threw himself at the fireball; an explosion of data from Ken's ready digivice and he was Stingmon, stronger and faster yet no match for the monstrosity before him. Yet the fireball never hit him. It was never fired at all.

Suddenly Maedhros stood proudly next to Ken, his flaming sword still stuck firmly where he'd thrown it: right in Daemon's leg. The gigantic Digimon yelled in pain as his robes caught fire, then threw himself into the ocean, grabbing the elf in the process. When he emerged, he still held the struggling Noldo in one hand.

"And who are you," sneered Daemon, "who dares come between me and my vengeance?"

The sodden elf stared straight at him, eyes luminous, grave, and sad. "One who would help you. Who wants to help you see what you intend can only harm you. Revenge is not the answer, I know from personal—"

"Enough!" Daemon flung him to the ground. "Evil Inferno!"

"NO!" yelled Ken, but it was too late. Maedhros screamed as fire erupted around him, in several places turning the sand to glass. Then he was still, his proud copper-red head now charred and smoldering, his clothes burned away in places, angry blistering welts on his arms. Ken ran over and cradled the elf's burnt body in his arms, blinded momentarily by tears. "No," he sobbed, "no…no…no…" _Not again, not again! Why must everyone always die for me? No one else should suffer for my actions! Daemon's quarrel is with me alone! Why, Maedhros, why? Why did you think you even had a chance?_

A burning-cold hand touched his shoulders; through tear-streaked vision he stared up into hourglass eyes. "Leave him to me," Raistlin commanded in his penetrating whisper of a voice. "I will tend his wounds. Go repay your debt."

Ken was relieved—Maedhros wasn't dead--horrified through his shocked sorrow. "You…you _want_ me to die?" He'd called Raistlin his friend!  
The mage smiled wryly. "Oh, you would think that, wouldn't you, you thick-headed guilt-wracked fool? But unsettled battles are debts as well, and yours with the creature yonder is not yet finished. Even now, he makes ready to eliminate the others. Yet you have on your side a power you had not before, a strength of which he is unawares. Don't be a moralizing dolt and in your goodness kill your "friends". If someone gives you power—" his face stretched in a grin, or the eerie impression of a grin—"use it!"

"Use it?" Ken repeated stupidly as he rose and faced his opponent once more; as he stood, his goggles and the Crest of Kindness tumbled out of his pocket. Looking down at where they lay, the pieces began to click into place. Stingmon could not defeat Daemon; his friends could not defeat Daemon; he himself, no matter what weapon he conjured for himself to use, could not defeat Daemon. But his friends, plus the one power that always eluded him due to the lack of one crucial component…

Ken strapped the goggles on and strode back to where Roger and the strange man were trying to maintain a very shoddy shield against Daemon's fire; Lucemon watched in awe as Anakin tried to nudge the angel into battle. _For Maedhros ,_he thought.

"Stingmon," he told his partner, feeling what he needed materialize in his hand, the Tag that would make his Crest useful at last, that would turn all the power his angry, lost, yet very determined soul contained into raw energy and data that would alter and strengthen his partner, "digivolve."


	3. You Win Some

I have only one excuse for taking so long with this story: I. HATE. THIS. PLOTLINE! There's no opportunity for character interaction at ALL! I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT….But I need it for the sequels I'm planning to make any sense. So please, bear with this, keep reading it even though it sucks (and I don't use that word lightly; I'm more of a "stinks" person), and start reviewing with interest when I start posting the next story, "Worlds Apart," which is actually 2 stories occurring concurrently. Oh yeah. It's gonna be cool.

If any of this was mine, I would hate it even more.

Dark Chest of Wonders, Chapter Three: One Problem Down, One To Go, And Still No Sign Of An Interesting Name For The Chapter

"All the burdens gone/Open the chest once more…" 

"You're gaping, _mage,_" Raistlin told Roger, who stood slack-jawed and staring at the spectacle before him. "Surely someone adept as you has seen and executed similar displays?" The Black Robe's lip curled derisively, but the Conte Duke caught for the briefest instant a flash of envy in those golden eyes, a longing for any new art or power to be learned, mastered, controlled.

The same light doubtless lit his own face, for what the boy had done was no less than astounding. From a sniveling, crawling worm, he had created a masterpiece of a guardian, a gigantic silver insect, lightning-fast and ready to fight.

"GRANKUWAGAMON!" bellowed Ken's partner. "HRRAH!"

Roger saw tears slowly leaking down Ken's upturned face, like a cleansing rain washing the grime of worry and guilt from those pale, young features. "We really did it," he said softly. "And not just to Ultimate. We made it to Mega."

The demon, however, was less than impressed. "So. You created a Tag for your little friend. How sweet. Too bad you won't live to tell the rest of your friends about it. EVIL INFERNO!"

Another fireball sizzled to the earth; the bug whizzed out of the way and whirled around for a counterattack. In and out the two monsters danced and dodged, Daemon stronger but Grankuwagamon too hard to hit. Yet sooner or later, Ken's luck would run out.

Roger tore his eyes from the battle, mind whirring as he analyzed the situation. The elf: unconscious if not dead. The boy: cheering his partner on (_If I were the demon,_ thought Roger, _I'd attack _him_ directly)_. The angel, the swordsman: arguing about something. Ne new man: shaking the elf, trying to wake him up (_like that would help). _Raistlin Majere…

…prodding Roger in the back. "It is your time now," he hissed. "Do you not see?"

Roger stared at him. "My time? I'm not entering that fray, no matter how much you would love to see me incinerated. I've had too many people flatter me—"

"—including yourself, it seems, but now is not the time to insist on your own superiority, you dolt!" Raistlin pointed an emaciated hand not at but behind the battlefield. "I told you before your trap was impressive. Such a spell is not to be used sparingly when so much is at stake."

_A Gate? He thinks that thing can be stopped by a Gate? _Clearly the man was mad. "At stake?" Roger asked, laughing nervously. "How is anything at stake? Even if we die, no real harm can befall us. For we are not truly alive."

"You and I, no. But there are some who are."

"The boy." Roger snorted. "I didn't take you for a sentimentalist. The boy is nothing to me."

"And the displeasure of the gods?"

"I don't give a damn about the gods!" snapped Roger, gnashing his teeth.

"Ironic diction," Raistlin said to no one in particular. "Especially from one who, I believe, was _coerced_ into joining this organization by…"

Roger groaned; once again, he'd played into the younger man's hands. "So a Gate _might_ trap the demon, sap his strength. But it will not be enough."

"Not unless we alter it." Raistlin reversed his staff so the crystal touched the sand, dragged it across the surface. Sparks followed its path. "Electricity and magic," he explained. "That creature is not composed of flesh and bone, but data."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter. You wouldn't understand. I could take all _week_ and it is likely you wouldn't understand. We shall create it together." Raistlin's face was lit with darkness, a horrible golden mask smudged with shadows. "Now what is the spell?"

"Pardon me." It was the new man, the rich yet tattered young thing with the hollow expression. "I heard you say spell." From the expanses of his robes he produced a staff of his own, and Roger inhaled sharply as power began to ripple thought the air—dark power, sinister and focused. _He's sick of giving in_, he realized, looking at the young man's fragile yet resolutely set jaw, the upright on-edge posture. _And he's strong._

"What's your name?" Roger asked, giving the young man his most brilliant smile.

"Lyon, sir. Prince Lyon of Grado."

"Excellent. Duke Roger of Conte at your service, my liege. Now, I have created a plan that…"

Raistlin snorted and flicked a grain of sand off his staff contemptuously. Roger shrugged it off. He was in control again.

And when the Conte Duke was in control, things had a way of getting done.

o0o 

"That is one big swirly thing," said Lucemon as he and Anakin crouched in the shadows, the latter in full Dark Lord attire, tense and waiting for the signal. If the mages were going to go ahead with their plan, they would have to do it soon: Daemon was tiring of trying to catch Grankuwagamon, who now bore Ken on his broad grey-silver back.

Lucemon's palms were itchy with energy: he was in Falldown Mode, and the twin globes of light and darkness he wielded were eager to do their job. _Come on,_ he willed the others mentally. _Come on come on come on come on._ He could practically taste the data, sizzling and sweet: licking his lips, he bit himself with his left fang and winced.

As if that itself were the signal, a gigantic explosion rocketed off of the back of the giant insectoid and straight into Daemon's chest. As he howled in pain and stumbled backwards, Raistlin, Roger, and Lyon dropped the invisibility spells they'd been using. Raistlin leaned heavily on Lyon's shoulder plate; his breath was coming in short gasping bursts, but even that could not destroy the glory of the moment.

Lightning flared up and Daemon shrieked, a wrenching scream that ripped into Lucemon's eardrums and rattled the rocks around them. The enemy was trapped; already the Gate was sapping his energy, robbing him of the strength to fight back.

On his partner's back, Ken hovered at his enemy's eye level. "You should've listened to Maedhros," he told his captive foe, but his words and eyes were cold. "Guess you wrecked your second chance."

He raised his hand; light flashed off his goggles, and with a sweeping motion he threw the bolt of thunder he'd created into Daemon's chest.

"The signal!" cried Vader, springing forth and sweeping his lightsaber back in preparation for a thrust, but Lucemon didn't need to be told. Already the sphere of lightning was streaking through the air; the darkness followed soon after, capturing Daemon in yet another prison. Final spells were cast by all three magicians; an army of phantoms swept over Daemon, hacking at him even as the lightning ripped apart his body.

With a final cry, the demon dissolved, broken down into bits of data. Ken exhaled, but the breath was knocked out of him as something else rushed towards where Daemon had been.

"No," Lucemon cried, blasting Grankuwagamon out of the way, "it's MINE!" Arms spread triumphantly, laughing giddily, drunk with success, he absorbed Daemon's data into his own digital form, could already feel the changes begin, feel his body expanding, changing, projecting his soul into the heart of the darkness he'd swallowed. Reject's plan had been the last straw; now the pesky humans would never order him around again! No one would!

Armor closed around his body, small in comparison to the behemoth his mind would control in addition to his larvalike form. A second chance, Ken had said. Well, this was _Lucemon's_ second chance for utopia, and he wouldn't let humans ruin it for him again! He was a dragon, a larva, a mindless body, a controlling mind.

He was one soul with two bodies.

He was…

"SHADOW LORD MODE!"

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

a/n: Yeah, cheesy names, I know. For all of you non-Digimon watchers…explanations in the next chapter, I promise. Stick with me, please.

Apologies to everyone who didn't get a review reply from me; I can't remember to whom I replied and who got neglected. Sorry! I will be replying from now on as soon as I get a review; hopefully this will solve my problem.

Tune in next time!


	4. In Case You Forgot, We Killed The Elf

I'm typing this right after posting ch. 3, and working without a draft, so you all can imagine the quality. Ugh.

Let's get this over with….

Dark Chest of Wonders, Chapter Four: In Case You Forgot, We Killed The Elf

"_Dark chest of wonders/Seen through the eyes…"_

It was very dark.

That was Maedhros's first thought after hitting the ground.

It was also very quiet.

That was the second.

The third was: _I don't believe this. I died again!_

**You, my son, are a singularly talented individual. I applaud your individuality and mock your unwisdom. **Apparently Fëanor felt similarly about what had happened…or Maedhros supposed had happened. But if he was dead….where was he now?

He blinked sand out of his eyes, but the smooth surface under his hands was not beach, the blank blackness all around was not the ocean view, the chilling silence was not the sounds of a furious battle being waged. He remembered throwing his sword at the giant creature, remembered being picked up and tossed around, remembered with aching clarity the searing agony of being immolated and dashed on the ground (_fire again, am I cursed to always die surrounded by flames? Truly, Father, were you named Feanaro by my grandmother)(_**Don't blame _me_ for your own ineptitude!)**…yet he could not make the memories add up to being plunged into darkness. So…he had to have died.

He still had a body, still had his right hand, could feel no burns on his flesh as he ran his fingers across his face and wiggled his feet to see if they were still there. Gathering his senses, he found he could stand. Yet still all was in darkness. Had he been blinded and deafened only? No, no, then he would still feel the grains of sand beneath his fingers. He was dead then, definitely and unequivocally, despite his still seeming to have a body.

"So where am I?" he asked aloud.

"Back in Mandos," a voice behind him replied, and as Namo swept into the room Maedhros found his faculty of sight restored. The Vala bowed his head, seemingly sorrowful. "Think not that you are invincible, Nelyafinwe."

"I don't," Maedhros half-snapped, adding "Lord Namo," when he realized to whom he was speaking so rudely. "So I have left the world again. Such a fate seems strangely fitting. I bend my family's Curse only to find it remains self-fulfilling."

**Any curse you feel you have created through your own ineptitude!** Fëanor began to continue, then stopped abruptly as Namo swung his hooded head around.

"Ah, yes, Curufinwe. Come with me."

**I am not a chattel you can flippantly---**

"I said COME WITH ME."

Maedhros cried aloud as pain seared across his forehead; clapping a hand to his head he stumbled backwards as if pushed. Opening his eyes and wiping away sudden tears, he saw his father—freed from imprisonment within his brain—pick himself up off of the ground and, grudgingly, be led away by the Judge. Watching their retreating figures, he felt a pang of—regret? Fear? Dread? What would the Valar do to Fëanor? Would they punish him somehow for his second rebellion? And what about Maedhros himself, the unwitting host? Would the son be punished yet again for the sins of the father?

"Like a yoke around my neck," he muttered grumpily, "weighing me down yet always pulling me back to him." Sighing heavily and determining that, as usual, he could do nothing to change the situation, Maedhros sat down, placed his head between his hands.

_What if they take him away? What if I never see him again?_

"Good riddance to him, then," he muttered stubbornly, but his heart pleaded otherwise. Life—death—without his father? He had borne the legacy for so long. To be free of it, really free, with his father gone forever—it should be liberating. Yet it weighed him down, turned his soul to sluggish lead within his breast.

"Why?" he asked himself. "He's been nothing but a bother these past few days. Had he not intervened, much would have gone better. Maglor might have agreed to come…" yet that thought led to another, a vision of himself just before the second meeting of his group, of himself having to nearly drag his father down the hall to the conference room. As he watched the two figures in his mind, strangely detached and impassive, he found himself admiring not the forceful figure but the rebel, refusing to bow to what he agreed with not.

And watching his father refuse to redeem himself, Maedhros understood.

**o0o**

When Namo returned with Fëanor in tow, the two found Maedhros in the same position, eyes unfocused and far away.

"The others," he said, standing as he saw them approach. "Are they—"

"Struggling," replied the Vala. "Yet they have devised a plan…" his voice trailed off. Then, suddenly, vehemently, Namo did something neither Elf expected, that no one in all of Arda would have ever believed.

He swore.

"Relapse!" he bellowed shortly afterward, as Maedhros stared blankly and Fëanor closed his jaw, hoping no one had seen it drop. "How could he—"

Turning, he surveyed Maedhros. "I believe you had best know this."

"I concur," the stunned elf mumbled dazedly, eyes wide. Then he forced himself to focus. "What has transpired?"

"They have defeated the demon. Yet in so doing, Lucemon has transformed himself into a being of such great evil that—"

Namo was cut off as Fëanor laughed, a barking, derisive half-snort. "So even your grand plans can have unforeseen consequences, can they? Yet I have long known that one was not to be trusted. You are receiving only what you deserve."

"As did those who chose to follow you, Curufinwe," intoned the Vala, apparently trying to make up for his earlier break in dignity. "Your comrades shall not be capable of handling this themselves. I had best intervene…"

"No," said Maedhros.

Both stared at him: jaw clenched, eyes set, a hidden fire simmering within, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "What mean you?" asked Namo. "They cannot—"

"We—my companions and I--are in our unfortunate situation because we chose to fall. If we are to redeem ourselves, it must be through our choices as well. This is where I erred, Father, when I coerced you into joining me in this brotherhood. I cannot force you to tear the veil from your eyes, nor should I." He smiled. "This I realized as I sat there waiting. Yes, I still believe you fell, and yes, through my decisions I fell with you and for you. _Yet it was my choice_. And, should Time turn back its ever-flowing streams, I could not make any other decision. You have damned me forever, Father, and many times I disobeyed your commands of my own free will, and many times I have in the secrecy of my chambers cursed you along with myself. Yet you are still my father, my leader. And I…I still love you."

This confession merited not a single whit on Fëanor's face. "And how does this aid your compatriots?" he asked unfeelingly. "How do you propose to save them? With your love? Ha!" He sneered.

"I mean that, if we are to triumph, we must do so without truly divine intervention. Therefore, Lord Namo, if anyone is to be sent, send me. For I am one of them, their leader, and I have let them down. For the sake of my own glory, I sacrificed myself, and I beg of you, give me another chance. Let not the Valar redeem us. Let us do it ourselves, lest the results not be complete." He bowed and drew his sword. "And if I die this time, let it be for forever."

Namo, head bowed, considered this. "I understand and agree. Yet you have done your share. I shall consider this a test."

He pointed not at Maedhros but at Fëanor. "I shall send Curufinwe. Should you succeed, though the Curse on your House holds, you shall not be punished for your second infraction."

"What!" Fëanor exclaimed as he slowly faded from view. Maedhros smiled again, only a bit wryly this time. For some reason, he felt the Vala had somehow missed the point.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o0**

a/n: I know, I know. What can Fëanor do that the others can't? Wait and see. Ken still has, remember, that handy pair of goggles, and Raistlin knows how to fight dragons. That's all I'm going to say.

Sorry this one wasn't funny, and sorry Namo was so OOC.

Oh! I almost forgot! Soon I shall be publishing to the Internet a Recovering webcomic, "Perfect World," about six of the guys stuck in an American high school with Fëanor's wife, Raistlin's ex-girlfriend, and a rather irate former goddess of absolute evil.

I also can't decide if I'm going to do both parts of "Worlds Apart" on here. The first part kind of has gotten swallowed by the webcomic. How much would everyone care if I pared down the cast a bit? And who should go? It makes me so sad to say it, but the cast is getting ridiculous. There's too many people to do good character interactions. Waah.

Keep reading; the grand finale of this is coming soon!


	5. No Way This Works

And here we are, finally, at the end of this infernal nonsense. I'm just as impatient to get this over with as you probably all are to read this, so here goes.

I own nothing. Thankfully.

Dark Chest of Wonders, Chapter 5: This Would Never Work In Reality, But Then Again. What In These Stories Would?

_I shan't do it,_Feanor decided. _I shan't fight the thing. I'll simply walk away, leave the fools to clean up their own messes. The Valar have no power to stop me there, ha! Not as long as they continue their pathetic attempt to keep up the pretense of benevolence. The instant they raise their hands with ill intent, their plots over these thousands of years shall be made plain, and my people shall rally behind their true King once more! They dare not stop me; they shall not. Good riddance to them, and to the fool who has the gall to call himself my son._

_My son…_ He remembered the instant of searing pain as Maedhros had died the second time, remembered his inner protests against the act of standing up to Daemon as an act of idiocy. _My son, who spent his entire life running away from his duty to me…yet did not desert his goal against impossible odds on that beach. How dare he! How dare he place this sorry group of misfits above his own father! How dare he care for them more than…_

Unbidden, another voice echoed in his head, a memory only; he tried to brush it away, for the speaker was yet another traitor. _Yes, he cares for them, and he counts you as one of them. He loves you. You're his father._

_Then he should act like a son, Nerdanel_, Feanor told the memory, _just as you should have acted like a wife._

He could almost hear her laughter, see the sunlight glance off of her warm red-brown hair. _Hasn't he?_

He hardened his heart and purpose, yet in the back of his mind a new seed was germinating. _I'll beat the blasted thing_, he decided, _if only to spite the fool who could not._

**o0o**

Landing lightly on the sand, Feanor found himself the unknown observer of heated arguments, valiant attempts, and mass carnage.

Raistlin and Ken were quarreling furiously over something or other; the boy held a long silver lance in one hand and was vehemently protesting to the mage; Feanor caught the phrase "Dark Spore might take completely over" amid the ranting. Lyon and GranKuwagamon sought to hold Lucemon Shadow Lord Mode off, the latter still practicing his swooping attacks and the former holding a book in one hand and casting energy blasts with the other. Roger and Anakin were unconscious on the ground.

Feanor tapped Lyon on the shoulder; the young man gave an involuntary start, crying out "Who are you!"

Cursing, Feanor realized that neither Lyon nor Roger would recognize him. "Never mind that," he snapped. "Just what exactly are you attempting? That menace could swallow your scrawny body in a heartbeat, crush you underfoot and not even notice, yet still you persist. Do you have a plan of attack? A method to defeat the monster?"

"I'm just doing the best I can, sir," Lyon replied meekly; Feanor scoffed, completely forgetting that several thousand years ago, he himself had set off for a seafaring voyage without first building any ships.

"The best you can? Ha! I expected you to know something; I see now that was a grievous miscalculation. What have you discovered thus far about it? Has it any weaknesses? ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME! WHAT CAN I USE TO DEFEAT—"

Lyon's head snapped around as Lucemon dove in; from his hands a blast of power erupted, pushing the dragon away yet inflicting petty damage. Turning to Feanor again, he bowed his head, cheeks flushed. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I interrupted you. You were saying?"

Sighing heavily, the elf turned away. Hopeless. This was really hopeless. Yet…he had never let anything defeat him before. Striding back the way he came, keen mind running through all his possibilities—yet mostly drawing a blank—he couldn't help snorting as he saw Raistlin, struggling to hold the gigantic lance, attempt to mount the giant insect.

"And what do you believe—" he began.

Ken, who was helping Raistlin, whirled around. "You!" he cried.

"Yes, me," Feanor snapped. "What are you attempting!"

Raistlin looked up and smiled, a hard cruel smile. "Nothing," he replied, tossing down the lance; it landed at Feanor's feet. "You can heft that with ease, can you not?"

Feanor saw where this was heading. "Of course I can. So you expect me to straddle that monster and ride to my doom? Are you so eager to be rid of me? Not a very warm welcome, mage!"

"That _thing_, as you so charmingly put it, is a dragonlance," Raistlin replied forcefully. "We are combating a dragon. Need I explain further?"

"This is madness," Feanor muttered as he picked up the lance. "Absolute madness."

**o0o**

"I can't see a blasted thing! My faculty of sight has been completely obstructed!"

"Shut up! You think this is easy!"

**Stay calm, both of you!**

"Out of my head, mage!"

This was not going well. Feanor had climbed aboard the giant insectoid, lance in hand, only to be told by a wincing Ken that, instead of fighting the dragon proper, he would have to dive into the black ball of energy it was holding, for all the "dark power" seemed to be concentrated there. This, in Feanor's opinion, negated the need for a special dragon-fighting weapon, but the boy was in obvious mental pain and likely not in any condition to conjure another weapon. Lyon continued to preoccupy, if not wound, the dragon itself; Raistlin had gone to help, but still chimed in mentally as he had when outlining his plan back in the shop; Roger and Anakin were still unconscious (_hail the mighty warriors, _Feanor had thought as he stepped over their bodies); and that just left him, Curufinwe, against the beast. So it always was. But such, he figured, was the price he had to pay for his obvious superiority.

He hadn't counted on the insect having an attitude problem.

"Hang on tight; the sooner we get there, the sooner Ken won't be in pain anymore!"

"I give nary a damn how Ken feels, except insofar as it has affected his position outside on the ground and my position—"

"I thought you were a glory seeker. And one more bad word about Ken and I'll pitch you off."

"Be careful you do not find yourself affixed to the weapon I hold."

**Funny, I thought the child had stayed behind.**

"I thought you remained behind as well due to your incapacity to—"

**Keep your eye on the goal or it will not be me with the incapacity.**

"I shan't even deign to answer that."

**I believe you just did.**

It was hard going inside the Dark Area. The very atmosphere repelled the flying steed and its rider, yet bit by bit they made progress. A form, silhouetted by the dimness, appeared before them. Feanor blinked; he'd expected almost anything, but a golden-winged, red-eyed, white larva was not on his list of probable incarnations.

"You," it sneered; the voice was Lucemon's, except more sinister, almost sultry. "You, who laughed at me. You, who thought you'd outwitted me at every turn. You, who held me back. Who's dominant now?"

Feanor held up the lance. "That is what this battle will decide."

Lowering his weapon, he ordered GranKuwagamon to charge.

**o0o**

"Please, Lord Namo, show me!" Maedhros begged for what felt like the thousandth time. "It's my fault he's in this position, I have to—"

"And what do you think you can do for him should he fall?" the Lord inquired; humbled and chagrined, Maedhros bowed his head in subservience. "It is up to Curufinwe now. You must learn what is your place and what is not."

"I know," Maedhros sighed; behind him, a light flashed, and a familiar boyish voice moaned "Owwwww…."

"Lucemon," said Namo darkly. As Maedhros turned around, he saw the creature, now an angel again, pick himself up and dust off his toga. "You disobeyed the Pledge."

"I took advantage of the situation," spat Lucemon. "You can't force me to give up my dreams just because you don't like them. That's not fair!"

"Yet it's exactly what your utopia would do."

"Well, that's different."

"How?"

The question caught the would-be dictator off guard. "…..It just is!" he finally protested. "Because it's Me! Want to make something of it?"

Namo turned to Maedhros. "Nelyafinwe. What is the punishment for a group member who regresses?"

"What? Oh!" Rummaging in his pack, he produced the Fell Deeds handbook and flipped through it until he found the page. Then he blinked; perhaps there had been a typographical error? "It says…ah…Lord Namo, what is written here is the word "filing.""

"Filing?" Lucemon squeaked. "Torture? Slowly whittling away at my body while—"

"Filing," Namo repeated; out of nowhere, several thousand sheets of paper materialized over Lucemon's head and dumped down all around him. "Paperwork. Death, you see, is big business. And business is good. I am need of a clerical assistant…and I also must keep close tabs on you. You shan't be going on any missions anytime soon."

"But my father?" Maedhros interjected. "What of him?"

Namo sighed again. "Your father, and the other members of your Group who wish to, shall be sent forward in time. There is a good chance you can alter a prophesied future, and save a hopelessly fallen soul, if you help the Elves win a battle."

"Very well," Maedhros said, taking out his sword and limbering up. "Who is our foe?"

"The Dark Lord Sauron."

Now it was Maedhros's turn to shout "That's not fair!", but his plea too fell on deaf ears. The light flashed, and he found himself staring at someone he hadn't been sure he would ever see again.

"Father!" he cried, running into his arms; the older elf turned away.

"I won your fight, Nelyafinwe. But that does not mean all is forgiven."

"No," said Maedhros as he turned towards the sounds of battle, "it doesn't." _But it does mean we've been given another chance. That you shall not be punished for your most recent infractions. That maybe someday, we can be a family again, and you will acknowledge that all I have done, the good and the bad, I have done in your name._

Closing his eyes, he kissed his blade, savoring the thought of battle with an almost guilty anticipation. _Father, this mission…this fight…is for you._

**o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

And so, over 6 months after it began, the story that has plagued our mortal existences is over and done with. Now I can focus on the next story in this cycle and on the Interviews. So please, stay tuned for "Once Again," the latest installment in the never-ending (and don't I know it…JK, I love these guys) series of Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group stories. To everyone who's still reading…I LOVE YOU ALL!


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